


The One that Got Away

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Trevor did the impossible and disappeared so well that even Sherlock and Mycroft combined couldn't find him.  What happens when Mycroft finds him and Sherlock's 'dead'? Where does John fit when Victor is found?</p><p>Summary is almost longer than the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One that Got Away

After the first year anniversary, John got really drunk. When his hangover was tolerable, he managed to walk into 221 Baker Street and have tea with Mrs. Hudson. It would be the anniversary of that silent teatime before John made it upstairs to begin going through Sherlock’s things. An advantage of a rich and controlling older sibling was clear, in that nothing had changed in two years.

A month of memory filled packing, sorting, and deciding in-between shifts, finally left John with only Sherlock’s room. As neither of them had spent a great deal of time in Sherlock’s room, John expected this to be the easiest. To a certain extent, it was, as it could be compartmentalized like going through a crime scene or a stranger’s life. The hard part was applying Sherlock's method to the items he found in a sort of remembrance. 

Neat bed, neat wardrobe, socks indexed. It was possible the person who lived here was obsessive-compulsive. The few personal effects seemed to be scientific equipment that had migrated into the room from a lab of some sort, though the giant, framed periodic table of elements on the wall adequately demonstrated the owner’s interest in science. John had already decided on a school that could use that, so he picked it off the wall and leaned it, glass first, against the bed. A glance around the room confirmed that emptying it was all he had left to do, and John turned to start moving the boxes out into the main room. The double helix carefully attached to the back of the periodic table was unexpected. 

Sitting, John got a good look at it, the better to apply Sherlock’s methods and answer why the man had it hidden. Hand drawn, so the large graph of DNA was probably old, something Sherlock had worked on before he had access to large computers and large printers. John had seen some of Sherlock’s drawings of crime scenes, so he could recognize Sherlock’s artistic style, which was basically his attempt to render everything as accurately as he could remember it. The double helix was labeled and color coded, and next to it were several pages of the exclamation looking marks of expressed genes. 

John was no expert, but the labels helped him find out this sequence was likely to be an addict, slight chance of breast cancer and Alzheimer’s in the family but a very low chance this person would get either. John read the information again, searching for a name or any reason why Sherlock would have it. Sherlock had all this information in his head, so why would he keep it, like the periodic table on the other side, unless it held some sentimental value for him? 

“John, Mrs. Hudson is worried.” Mycroft was standing over John, a cup of tea in each hand instead of his umbrella. 

Blinking and taking the tea, John realized the sun was setting. He’d been staring at the genetic drawings for a while then. 

“I did wonder where he had put that.” Mycroft commented, idly. 

“Who is it?” John’s staring had let him figure out that much of it. The sequence wasn’t likely to be Sherlock’s, as he wasn't that vain, so probably case related. 

“That John, is the one that got away.” 

“Moriarty?” 

“No, though I understand why you came to that conclusion. That is the love of Sherlock’s life, in the romantic sense, the one that got away.” 

“Dumb bastard.” 

“Sherlock was young, and I suppose most people have such stories from their youths.” 

“I was talking about whoever let Sherlock get away.” 

“So you are the dumb bastard?” 

“Didn’t know you had a sense of humor, Mycroft. Sherlock was still hung up on this addict here, I never stood a chance.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, John. I thought if anyone could get Sherlock out of this fantasy, it would be you.” 

“What was he like?” 

“It wasn’t what he was that intrigued Sherlock, it was that he could not find him. A chance encounter, and words left unsaid. I’m not even sure of how much I heard was the truth, as I was in my early years of government work and very busy. Apparently, a dog bit Sherlock on the ankle and Sherlock started looking for the owner to make sure the dog was not rabid. Neither Sherlock nor myself have been able to find this Victor.” 

“Bitch.” 

“Not your favorite vulgarity, John. Is your vocabulary suffering in my brother’s absence?” 

“Keep your sense of humor to yourself. No, my Aunt Carroll, mum’s sister, married a Mike Trevor, she had a dog named Victor. Female dog, never would explain why she named it Victor, Aunt Carroll was the real female dog and I hated having to spend summers in Aylsham, so my tiny little brain thinks anyone named Victor is a bitch.” 

At the weird, gasping sound behind him, John turned to look at Mycroft. The posh man was leaning against the doorframe, apparently trying to smother a laugh. 

“It’s not that funny.” John groused, but this only made Mycroft laugh louder. He was sagging against the doorframe, tears starting in his normally cold and stoic eyes. “Mycroft, I’m going to help you sit down.” 

Dr. Watson was on the move, and even as his numb legs protested the sudden movement, he helped Mycroft sit. One hand on the pulse point in Mycroft’s neck, John pulled out the man’s phone. The password to unlock it appeared to be a thumbprint, so John had to take his hand off of Mycroft’s pulse to put the man’s thumb in the appropriate place. A quick scroll showed none of the numbers had names attached, so John chose one at random and hoped it wasn’t the Prime Minister. 

“Sir?” A crisp voice answered almost immediately. 

“Anthea, it’s John. Mycroft is having a panic attack in Sherlock’s bedroom.” 

“Help is coming, Dr. Watson.” The line disconnected before John could determine if Anthea sounded worried. 

“It’s fine, Mycroft. I know it’s been tough since Sherlock, well, don’t think about that. This will all pass in a moment and you’ll be back to your controlling self.” John wasn’t sure if he words were reassuring, but he knew that calm tone of voice worked in a war zone. 

Two sets of footsteps on the stairs told him someone was coming, so John moved between Mycroft and the incoming people. Their rushing might make it worse, or they could be here to kill Mycroft, so John kept up the banal talk. Anthea came in first, a man behind her that John recognized as one of their drivers. 

“Anthea, is Mycroft on any medication or exposed to anything I should know about?” John kept his tone calm and conversational, glad when Anthea responded in kind. 

“No, Doctor, he is just unusually stressed right now. An agent has disappeared and once we find him again, Mr. Holmes will be fine.” 

“Still needs to tell his doctor about this.” John offered with a smile, rubbing Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“It will be attended to.” 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

With Anthea around, things got attended to. It didn’t take long for Mycroft to come around, wash his face, and retreat from the flat. It would take a while for his dignity to repair itself, especially around John. Mycroft’s first order of business was comparing two genetic profiles and wondering if fate was real after all. Soon, he had yearbook pictures of John Watson with an unattractive appreciation for hair bands; John’s hair was really too fine to handle such length. 

The corrective lenses he wore had completed their job before he went to medical school, as had the braces. John hadn’t experienced the same growth spurt that Mycroft and Sherlock had, so their expectations of Victor’s final height had been wrong. When Mycroft had all the proof in his hand, that was when his missing agent resurfaced. After the official business was seen to, Mycroft could send the text he’d been waiting years to send. 

_I’ve found Victor Trevor._

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

Aylsham was a historic market town in a rural part of an important agricultural area of Norfolk, England. As such, it was the most boring place Sherlock had ever been, and that was saying something. Mummy had dragged him here while she worked with one of her charities to restore Blickling Hall, simply because Anne Boleyn had lived there. While she was doing that, Sherlock was left to fend for himself in a town that drove normal kids insane. He was fourteen and a genius, so spending every night at the movies did not hold his interest. 

The swarm of bees that drove them out of their rented cottage had been the only thing interesting in town. Their second rental was across the street and had a shed full of tools. Armed only with library books on woodworking and apiary design, Sherlock had set out to build a beehive. The planning and measuring was easy, but cutting the wood was proving to be a challenge. 

With his hair pulled into a rubber band and safety goggles on his face, Sherlock was vain enough to be glad nobody could see him. This changed when a knot in the wood jerked it out of the power saw and his hand snagged on the slowing blade. He could use another person right now, so naturally there weren’t any around. Using every vile word he knew, Sherlock ripped off the leather gloves to assess the damage. 

“Do you need help?” A calm voice asked, and Sherlock turned, holding out his bleeding hand. 

The stranger covered the distance between them quickly. A steady hand pinched the pressure point in the wrist to slow down the bleeding even as he led Sherlock to the garden hosepipe. He wore thick, coke-bottle glasses in a cheap frame, but seemed to see the wound clearly enough. He spoke with the traces of a Scottish accent and the breeze played around his long, platinum blond hair. The hair started to curl towards the very end, probably because of the same humidity that caused Sherlock’s hair to straighten and look even longer. 

“Oh, that’s not too bad at all. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, if you can sit still long enough to let it heal.” 

Sherlock marveled at the quiet efficiency of the boy as he pulled a plastic first aid kit out of his shorts pocket. He didn’t notice Sherlock’s look but his calming rambling answered the question anyway. 

“Why should you trust me, you may well ask, I’m just a bloke out walking a dog. I have been accepted to St. Bart’s for medical school. Nobody who knows me is surprised, as everywhere I go I seem to find people who need help, hence the first aid kit.” Looking up at last, he smiled. “You’re really lucky, as this power saw is too old to have a safety stop. You ripped the cord out of the outlet when you jerked back and saved your hand. You can go to the surgery if you want to. If it starts to turn red or ooze pus, you need to go in and get an antibiotic. You are up to date on your shots, right? Lock jaw is terrible so you might need to get a tetanus booster.” 

“I’m up to date.” Sherlock said, embarrassed that his voice didn’t come out in the baritone rumble puberty had been teasing him with. 

“Good, still, tell you parents about this. The blade looks clean, but since you’ve been cutting wood with it there might be rust I can’t see.” 

“Can you see anything with those glasses?” Sherlock asked, his dratted curiosity getting the better of him. 

“Corrective lenses, to help with my distance vision.” He shrugged, and held out a hand. “I’m…”

“Victor!” The calling voice was loud, but still far off. The boy and his dog jerked around, as if getting caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. 

“Sorry, I’ve got to go before she gets any madder. Maybe I’ll see you around?” 

“You have to check my wound.” 

“Sure.” The boy grinned, turned around and set off at a jog. “Come on, girl!” 

The Irish setter easily kept up with her boy, and Sherlock’s brain came back online. The stranger, who answered when Victor was called, was older than he looked. If he already had a place at St. Bart’s, he was older then Sherlock, even though they were the same height. Victor was flabby in places but still strong and athletic looking, so healthy eater involved in some sport or other. 

But Victor hadn’t laughed at Sherlock’s squeaky voice or been mad when asked about the glasses, responding to Sherlock’s curiosity with his own. Forcing himself not to grin, Sherlock went back into the house. He’d wait and see if Victor showed up again before allowing himself to get emotionally invested in the stranger. 

Mummy had dragged him to a luncheon the next day, and by the time he got back to the shed someone else had been there and left. They had straightened up Sherlock’s mess and finished cutting out his hive, so clearly they weren’t there to steal anything. Since the servants they’d hired while in town were old, Sherlock didn’t think they’d come out to do this, leaving Victor as the most likely suspect. The long blond hair found between the wooden boards helped add validity to this hypothesis. 

Sherlock assembled his hive and moved the queen bee into it. As he watched them work and build, he kept an eye out for blond hair and a red dog. Three weeks later, he’d given up on Victor returning when he saw the Irish setter running by. Following her at a run gave him a smaller area to search, though he lost her before she led him to Victor. Going door to door, he asked after Victor and his dog, saying the dog had bit him. Sherlock wasn’t about to tell a bunch of strangers he was looking for the handsome man who had been nice to him. 

The only people he couldn’t talk to, even though he went back for several days, were the Trevor family. Gossip held that they were rude, selfish people who thought they were too good to mingle with their neighbors. There had been a screaming fight a few weeks back, but they had only slipped away in the night recently. Since the dog had been there for Sherlock to see, they had taken the dog and driven away while he was asking their neighbors about Victor. He couldn’t understand how a good person like Victor was raised by the Trevor’s, but Sherlock was determined to find out. 

Looking for Victor was intriguing, and the summer’s obsession led Sherlock to the world of crime and detectives. Forensics complemented his interest in chemistry and biology, and he became convinced that he’d been right about Carl Powers being murdered. Looking for Victor showed Sherlock where to take his life, even as he never saw Victor again. 

When he was in rehab, Mycroft had taken over the search for Victor, hoping the man would be enough to convince Sherlock to stop the drugs. Mycroft wasn’t sure of why Sherlock was obsessed with the man, but he was grasping at straws to save his brother. Even their combined efforts hadn’t been enough though, and neither brother had worn defeat well. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

_I’ve found Victor Trevor._

Sherlock read the unsigned text knowing it could only come from one person. He reread it to assure himself it wasn’t the blood loss playing tricks with his head. Without pain medication, he’d slipped into a sleep that wasn’t restful before he could compose a reply, allowing him to half dream, half remember that summer in Aylsham. Now, recovering from massive trauma under the care of a mob doctor in Detroit, Sherlock realized something important. He sent his epiphany to Mycroft in a tersely worded text. 

_Keep him. It’s John I’m returning for._


End file.
